Thursday, September 20, 2007

"Have a great night, Ma'm," or As If My Job Isn't Bad Enough

It's amazing.

Just how stupid life can get.

So after a long, arduous, tedious day (just one in a series of long, arduous, tedious days) I thought that when I got home tonight, I was done. Safe in my West LA apartment, comfortable. Alone to enjoy the solace of a well-deserved sleep. My bedtime routine nearly through, I finished brushing my teeth and sat down to pee the final pee of the day. Ah, just a few more minutes and I'd be enjoying the satiny joy of my 400 threadcount sheets, when---

FUCK! My toilet is clogged. Water... filling the bowl... the ominous clump of toilet paper, whirling slowly around, looking up at me, laughing in my face as if to say: "No, Bitch. This bowl will not be my final resting place. And this day is not over, no matter how bad you wish it were. And oh, by the way, do you remember how much money you make?"

FUCK, FUCK!! Now the water is all over my bathroom floor. Perfect. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Towels. Right. Ok, where are my towels. FUCK! Laundry bin. Ok. Ew, God this is gross. I feel dirtier than I did that time I hooked up with that guy in that tent. I need a plunger...

I don't have a plunger.

Why, Dear God, do I not have a plunger? I am prepared for everything! A year's worth of kidney beans sits now in my pantry, waiting for Y2K to finally happen, and I have more re-writable CDs than any illegally downloading kid could ever need, but no...fucking....plunger.

Sack up, Lisa. You did this to yourself. So quickly, I change out of my PJs, throw on some sweats and somehow manage to get my broke-ass, braless self to Longs.

It's 11:15pm.

"Excuse me," I say after having wandered the aisle where I was certain I would find said plunger. "Where could I find a plunger?" To which the very low IQ bearing night shift cashier responded: "Aisle 14. Hardware." Fuck. I was just there.

So finally after 10 minutes I find the fucking plunger I so desperately need, all the while my foot tingling with the sensation of filth (yes, pee-water did indeed get on my foot), I go to purchase the stupid thing. "$5.40, please," says my half-wit night-shifter. I hand her the money. She gives me my change.

"Have a great night, ma'm."

Walking out of that store, plunger in hand, my tingling pee-feet itching, on my way home to a toilet that remains un-flushable, I honestly had to wonder if she meant it.